


The Circumstance of You and Me

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Nothing Will Remain 'Verse [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Events of 9/11, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage of Convenience, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the near-canon A/U, Nothing Will Remain, Peter and Elizabeth had been divorced for years, but remained very close friends. This is the story of how they met, forged an unbreakable bond, and why, when Peter is gay and is not in the closet, they got married. This story can stand alone, but the experience will be richer if you’ve read the other fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Circumstance of You and Me

**New York City, 1999**  
  
“Burke, my office.” Hughes, the new ASAC for the White Collar division, gave him the double finger point summons, an unnecessary accompaniment to his terse order. Peter jumped up, grabbed his notebook and all but ran up to the conference room. He didn’t think anything was wrong, but he was still feeling his way with this legendary agent.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“You like art, right?” Hughes’ tone was brusque.  
  
“Yes.” Peter kept his answer simple and his own tone respectful. He didn’t know where this was going and he was still not sure what his new boss knew or didn’t know about him.  
  
“Good, then you’ve got point on a new case.”  
  
Hughes ushered him into the conference room. There was a young woman sitting at the table, and she looked up as they entered. Peter thought she seemed nervous.  
  
“This is Elizabeth Mitchell, and she’s come forward with evidence about an on-going fraud at the gallery she where works.” Hughes turned to the woman. “Would you like to explain?”  
  
Ms. Mitchell stood up and cleared her throat. Peter tried not to smile. She was definitely nervous.  
  
“Um, yes – well. I’ve been working as the Assistant Manager at the Diarmitt Gallery for about two years. Until a few months ago, part of my job was to collate and submit the sales tax information to the finance department.” She cleared her throat again. “But we had a reorganization and that work was given to another – ” Ms. Mitchell coughed again and Peter poured her a glass of water.  
  
“Here, just relax. You can sit down.” Peter took a seat, hoping she’d follow suit. She did. He spared a glance at his boss, who nodded and left. That, more than anything seemed to relax the young woman.  
  
Peter gave her what he hoped was a calming smile. “Agent Hughes is a good man, but he can be a little intimidating.”  
  
She nodded. “He kind of reminds me of my father.” She twisted her hands, still nervous.  
  
Peter waited for Ms. Mitchell to regain some composure.  
  
“Anyway – I haven’t been doing the sales tax reporting for a few months, and I really didn’t think about it and didn’t mind that someone else was. I mean, I have an accounting degree but I’m not really interested in bookkeeping.”  
  
“But something happened?”  
  
She nodded. “About two weeks ago, I was going through the mail – which is still part of my job – and there was a letter from the state sales tax division. The person who’s now doing the reporting was out on vacation and I figured I’d take care of whatever it was.” She took another sip of water. “I wasn’t being nosy.”  
  
“I’m sure you weren’t. But what was in the letter?”  
  
“It was a request for supporting information – pretty routine. Danielle hadn’t included copies of the tax exempt statements, which are required for all purchases over a certain amount. I went into the files and was going to make copies – and I found a whole bunch of fake exemption statements.”  
  
“Fake? How do you know they weren’t real? Those aren’t issued by the state.”  
  
“Okay – maybe ‘fake’ isn’t the right word. They were for clients that weren’t the kind that were usually tax exempt. You know – like non-profits, governments, charities.” At Peter’s frown, Ms. Mitchell added, “I did say I have an accounting degree. I know the basics.”  
  
“All right. So how do you know that these businesses are not exempt?”  
  
“Well, the purchasers weren’t businesses or charities. Claude Tallinger, who bought a Georges Braque, is a fashion designer. Madeline Serra is a pop singer – she paid over a hundred thousand dollars for a Klee study. They live in New York, and the paintings were delivered to their residences. I processed their invoices, with the right sales tax, but the sales are now both listed as tax exempt – ”  
  
“And the invoices – were they rebilled to charities without the tax?”  
  
“Not in the billing system. I checked. Mr. Tallinger and Ms. Serra both paid the full amount, but the tax records show that no sales tax was remitted to the state. It doesn’t make any sense.” Ms. Mitchell sighed. “I don’t want to lose my job, but something is wrong.”  
  
“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”  
  
She shook her head. “No. I made copies of everything and called in sick.”  
  
“That was a smart thing. And you’re very brave to do this.”  
  
“Brave? Like someone’s going to kill me when they find out?”  
  
Peter was quick to disabuse her of that worry. “No, I don’t think so. But most people would shrug and say it’s not their problem. It takes guts to risk your job and come forward when you think something’s wrong. And some people might even look for a payout to keep quiet.”  
  
Ms. Mitchell’s back went up and she looked like a livid fawn, all big eyes and pretty lips. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that!”  
  
“I’m not accusing you, Ms. Mitchell – like I said, you’ve done the right thing.”  
  
She drooped, outrage gone. “I’m going to lose my job, right?”  
  
Peter didn’t want to offer her false hope. “I don’t think it’s going to be pleasant for you at work if and when everything comes to light. No one likes to have their dirty laundry aired. Of course, we’ll do our best to keep your name out of it but we can’t guarantee, especially if it comes to trial. The courts don’t like anonymous tips.”  
  
“I can’t pay my rent on your best intentions, Agent Burke.”  
  
“Call me Peter, please.” He tried, again, for a calming smile, but he suspected that he looked like he was constipated.  
  
“Then I’m Elizabeth.” Her smile was sweet, if a little sad. “So, you’re going to bust the place? Seize the records?”  
  
“I think you’ve watched too much _Law & Order_. We like to use a little more finesse here in White Collar.”  
  
“Okay. What else should I do?”  
  
Peter could see that despite her anxiety about losing her job, Elizabeth was actually excited about helping with the investigation. It was cute, but maybe a little dangerous for her and for the FBI. “For the moment, nothing. You need to go back to work tomorrow and pretend that we didn’t have this conversation, and that you never came down to the FBI. If you see me or any agent there, you have to pretend that don’t know us, all right?”  
  
“You might be undercover?”  
  
Peter nodded. “It’s possible. Or we could be keeping the gallery under surveillance. And also, we don’t want to draw you into the case if we don’t have to – remember? We’re trying to keep your name out of it.”  
  
“Right.” Elizabeth took a deep breath and gave herself a pep talk. “Right. I know nothing. I can do this.”  
  
Peter talked to her for a few more minutes, trying to ease her nerves and keep her excitement to a minimum. Even with something as banal as sales tax fraud, having a civilian sticking her nose into the investigation could create all sorts of problems.  
  
He walked her down to the elevators and on a whim, decided to escort her to the street.  
  
“You’re very gallant, Agent Burke.” She smiled and there was a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. Peter wondered if she was trying to flirt with him.  
  
“I wanted a little fresh air – and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”  
  
Elizabeth chuckled. “You _are_ gallant. And blunt.”  
  
Peter shrugged. “It’s the truth.”  
  
Elizabeth leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, regardless.”  
  
Peter stood there and watched Ms. Elizabeth Mitchell disappear into the ebb and flow of afternoon foot traffic. Nice woman. Pity that she was a witness.  
  
And that he preferred nice men.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Elizabeth figured that her good deed wouldn’t go unpunished, or unnoticed, but nothing happened for weeks. Summer turned to autumn and autumn turned to winter and life at the Diarmitt Gallery continued.  
  
She was so tempted to get another look in the bookkeeper’s office, to see if there were any more fake tax exempt forms in the files. But she remembered Agent Burke’s warning. Playing Nancy Drew could jeopardize the investigation, if there actually was one. It had been almost six months since she’d reported her suspicions to the FBI and she’d heard nothing.  
  
About two weeks after Thanksgiving, she noticed a municipal utility van parked in front of the building that housed the gallery. That was actually the third or fourth time she’d seen the vehicle this week. But it was strange, because she hadn’t seen any utility workers or orange cones or gotten a notice about work being done. It was just parked there, taking up space all day long, from before eight, when she got into work, until after six at night, when she left the gallery.  
  
Elizabeth went to lunch, and the van was still there. She was heading down the block to the salad place when something told her to turn around. A man in a suit was climbing into the back of the truck, and if she wasn’t mistaken (and she was certain she wasn’t), the man was Special Agent Peter Burke.  
  
She ducked her head and smiled. Apparently something was happening.  
  
Of course, the van was still parked there when she came back, and as she walked towards it, she noticed a few things, like the small parabolic antennas on the back corners of the roof and the camera above the rear door. She probably never would have realized that this wasn’t an authentic Municipal Utilities truck if she hadn’t seen the man – Peter – get into it.  
  
Elizabeth was dying to wave at the camera, to let whoever was inside know that she knew who they were, but she didn’t. Even though she was almost positive that Agent Burke was inside, there was still a margin for error and she didn’t want to freak anyone out or jeopardize the investigation.  
  
And it was a good thing that she didn’t, because Arthur Ainsley just stepped outside and was frowning at her. Arthur was the new sales manager, the man who precipitated her change in responsibilities, and the one who handled the sales to Tallinger and Serra – the sales that she’d reported to the FBI. If she had to identify the person responsible for the apparent sales tax fraud, it would be him.  
  
Of course, it didn’t help that Arthur was a pig of a human being, sexist and classist, and odd for someone in the art world, homophobic. He called her “girl” and deliberately forgot her name, snapping his fingers at her whenever he wanted something. It was a good thing she didn’t report to him, but directly to Sebastian Diarmitt, the gallery owner and manager. He’d hired Arthur on the strength of recommendations from people he respected, but one morning, over coffee, Sebastian had admitted to her that it was a mistake. Not that he couldn’t sell ice to the Eskimos, but that there was something “off” about the man.  
  
Maybe if Agent Burke needed to talk to her again, she’d tell him about Arthur Ainsley.  
  
She kind of hoped that he would. He was a little intense – like she’d imagined that an FBI agent would be – but he was slightly goofy, too. He wasn’t extraordinarily handsome, like a model or an actor, but good looking in a way that made her think that he would age like fine wine. She liked him – his looks, his smile, his intensity and his goofiness. It was unfortunate that she got the feeling that he wasn’t interested or receptive to her as a woman. She had to wonder if he was projecting those vibes because she was a witness in an investigation or if he actually wasn’t interested. And the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that he wasn’t interested in her that way.  
  
She’d lived in New York and been part of the more bohemian elements of the art world for long enough to realize that sexual identity had nothing to do with how you dressed or behaved. It was quite possible that Peter Burke was gay.  
  
Arthur gave her the stink eye and pointedly looked at his watch as she walked passed him. She just smiled and hoped that the pig-faced bastard was going to get what was coming to him sooner than later.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“Shit – I think we’ve been made.” David Carson, one of the agents working with him on surveillance duty pointed to the young woman walking towards the van. She had stopped and looked directly at the camera.  
  
Peter checked the monitor. “Oh, nothing to worry about. That’s our reporting witness, Elizabeth Mitchell.”  
  
“Well, I hope she doesn’t blow our cover.” David was a good agent, a few years senior to Peter, but he was something of a kvetch and a worry wart. Peter didn’t mind working with him, but his glass-half-empty attitude could be wearing after a couple of shifts in close quarters.  
  
“I don’t think she will, but maybe I’ll have a word with her.” Peter checked the case file. Ms. Mitchell lived in Soho, sharing an apartment with two other women. Maybe he’d stop by and talk to her about what was going on.  
  
They had been listening in on the gallery’s telephone lines for the past week and there was something definitely hinky going on. The investigation was on Arthur Ainsley, the gallery’s sales manager. Since he’d joined the firm, the Diarmitt’s sales had increased, but the reported sales tax payments had not.  
  
He’d been given free rein to run the investigation, but as always it was subject to Agent Hughes’ sign off. He was thinking about going undercover as a wealthy buyer, one who was looking to dodge some hefty sales tax and commission payments. But they’d have to be careful; it would be a disaster to have the case blown apart by a claim of entrapment. The Diarmitt specialized in early Twentieth Century European art, not precisely his forte, but he’d spent the past few weeks familiarizing himself with the works from that era and could wax eloquent about Expressionism, Cubism, Fauvism and even the _Die Brücke_ and _Der Blaue Reiter_ schools.  
  
The last would probably help the most, since the Diarmitt was currently offering a lesser Kandinsky and two paintings by Natalia Goncharova. Peter actually liked the period and the art that came from the various schools of German Expressionism.  
  
At least he didn’t have to pretend to be fascinated by a cube of dirty clothes wrapped in bailing wire.  
  
The more he thought about it, the more he realized he needed to talk with Elizabeth Mitchell again. Not only to remind her that she couldn’t tell anyone about the investigation, but to sound her out about the potential target of the investigation, get her read on the man. He could bring her into the office, but that might send up all sorts of red flags. Better to stop by her apartment and talk privately.  
  
The rest of the surveillance shift went like most shifts in the van: moments of intense boredom interrupted by vast periods of ennui. The Diarmitt’s telephone logs were exceedingly dull, except for the telephone calls from one of the accounting staff who seemed to enjoy sexually antagonizing her boyfriend.  
  
By six o’clock, Peter wanted nothing more than a cold beer and the Knicks game. But that was going to have to wait. He needed to talk with Elizabeth Mitchell and her apartment in Greenwich Village was on his way home.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“Lizzie, you have a visitor!”  
  
El put down the copy of last month's _ARTNews_ and winced. She had told Amanda a hundred times or maybe a thousand times, that she didn’t like being called Liz or Lizzie or Beth or Bitsy or Bess or any of the other common diminutives for her name. It was El to her friends – and she’d tolerate Ellie if she had to – but that was it. She was tempted to ignore Amanda, but from long experience, she knew that wouldn’t work. The woman would just keep shouting until she appeared.  
  
If only Emma, the third of the trio sharing this tiny three-room apartment, was home. She had a way of getting Amanda to behave herself with just a look. Emma had amazing powers over people, which was why she was a human resources manager at Cantor, Fitzgerald.  
  
And it wasn’t like Amanda couldn’t let her know she had company in a civilized fashion. The apartment was small and her “bedroom” was a corner of the main living space, closed off with some cheap rice paper screens for privacy. Amanda was shouting like she needed to be heard down on the ground floor.  
  
“Are you coming? Because he’s cute and if you don’t want him, I do.”  
  
 _Him?_ El had no idea who was here to see her. She’d been expecting Dana, her college roommate, to drop by. Her last boyfriend had unceremoniously dumped her a couple of months ago and she’d not yet taken the plunge back into the dating pool.  
  
She got up, ran her fingers through her hair and toed around for her shoes. The right shoe was there, but no sign of the left one.  
  
“Lizzie, you there?”  
  
“I’m here, I’m here. Just hold on a sec.” She looked around the tiny space and spotted the bright red heel of her missing shoe under the end of her night table. Maybe if she didn’t splurge on Jimmy Choos, she could afford a place with her own bedroom. But once she slipped the shoes on, which gave her an extra four inches and a hell of a lot more confidence, she decided that the expense was worth it.  
  
Elizabeth came out from her “room” to find her gallant FBI agent smiling and talking to Amanda. She felt suddenly territorial, as if her apartment mate was poaching. “Hey there.” There was a slight edge to her voice.  
  
Peter looked up and gave her a wry smile, as if they had just share a private joke. She smiled back.  
  
Amanda stopped talking long enough to acknowledge El’s presence. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone.” Her tone was accusatory, as if Elizabeth was responsible for keeping her updated about her social life.  
  
She was about to say that she wasn’t, but she noticed something. Peter wasn’t wearing his badge and it seemed that he hadn’t introduced himself as an FBI agent. She figured he did that for a reason. “It’s all sort of new, Mandy. You know how that is, right?”  
  
The other woman nodded, but glared at her. “If I knew you were going out tonight, I would have called Brad and had him come over.” El could understand that – it was hard to have romantic company when there was someone not three feet away.  
  
 _Out tonight?_ She caught Peter’s eye and he gave an infinitesimal nod. She felt a surge of excitement. He was undercover and needed her to play along. But before she could say anything, he cleared his throat and cut into the conversation.  
  
“El – “ _How did he know she preferred that version of her name?_ “didn’t know I was stopping by. I’ve been out of town and I thought I’d surprise her.” Peter gave her a very earnest look. “I've made reservations at _La Cucina de Tua Nonna_. I know how much you like Italian food.”  
  
She smiled. As cuisines of choice went, Italian was a pretty safe bet, and _La Cucina_ was the new _it_ place in the neighborhood. Peter Burke was not only gallant, but he was smart. And better than that, he expected that she was equally intelligent. “I’ve been dying to try that place – so, thank you.” She skipped over to him – because in four-inch Jimmy Choos, you _had_ to skip – and brushed her lips against his cheek.  
  
Peter froze and she stepped back, hoping she hadn’t overdone it. But apparently not, because he gave her that approving smile again. She retrieved her coat and bag, he offered her his arm, and they left the apartment. He didn’t say anything while they walked down to the street and she followed his lead.  
  
He continued the pretense of besotted boyfriend even when they were out of the building, holding onto her hand. The sidewalk was still filled with people and El had to wonder if there was anyone watching them. Finally, when they turned the corner onto a quieter street, he let go and stopped.  
  
“Thanks for playing along back there. I didn’t want to complicated things for you.”  
  
“And Mandy works for another art gallery – so …”  
  
Peter’s grin lit up his whole face. “Not only beauty, but brains.”  
  
Elizabeth sighed. “You don’t have to flirt with me, Agent Burke.”  
  
“How do you know I’m not flirting?”  
  
“Because you’re an agent and I’m a witness on an active case.”  
  
This time his smile was tinged with a healthy amount of respect. “Like I said, brains.” He tugged her in the direction of the restaurant.  
  
“And I think you’re gay.”  
  
Peter stopped and turned back to her. “Excuse me?”  
  
Damn, she hadn’t meant to blurt that out. “Sorry.” El bit her lip and looked at the sidewalk, feeling like an idiot.  
  
“We’ve met twice, we’ve spent a total of an hour in each other’s company and you’ve figured out that I’m gay.” Peter didn’t seem upset at her statement, more puzzled than anything else. “How?”  
  
El shrugged. “Not sure, really. Vibes, gaydar, who knows?”  
  
“Okay.” Peter tugged at her again.  
  
“Where are we going?”  
  
“ _La Cucina de Tua Nonna_. I really did make reservations. And we really do need to talk.” He started walking again.  
  
She had to admire the way Agent Burke compartmentalized everything. She told him she thought he was gay and he was simply curious as to how she’d figured that out. She gave him a half-assed answer and he accepted it as truth, as if her answer really didn’t matter at all. What was important to him was the case, at least for the moment.  
  
She skipped to keep up with his long strides, feeling a little like Carrie Bradshaw trailing after Big. But in that fictional slice of a single New York girl’s life, Big didn’t shorten his strides for his companion. Peter Burke was nothing like that character. He was just the opposite, a good and caring man and she wanted to get to know him better, regardless.  
  
She wondered if they could be friends.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
**New York City, September 2001**  
  
Elizabeth felt like she’d never stop crying, even though the tears no longer poured down her face. Her eyes were dry but there was that hard knot of pain in her chest that wouldn’t go away.  
  
Emma was dead. She was there one moment – just that morning, they’d just been talking about renewing the lease on the apartment – and now she was gone. There was nothing left, just ashes.  
  
Amanda was gone, too. This morning, she packed her bags and told El that she couldn’t stay in New York anymore. She was going home to Ohio, too scared to stay in a place where everything seemed like a target.  
  
El understood that. It was a week after the world all but ended, and the passenger planes were flying again. But she couldn’t bear to see them in the sky. If one was flying low, she’d squeeze her eyes shut and whisper a prayer, “don’t fly into the buildings, don’t fly into the buildings.” Hearing the roar of the fighter jets was just as bad.  
  
She couldn’t take the subways, either; too scared that they’d stop running and she’d be stuck underground. Or worse – that some crazy person would try to blow up the trains – and she’d be killed in the wreckage.  
  
The gallery reopened yesterday, and she went to work, but there were no clients. Who would be interested in buying art when it seemed like the world was about to end? Sebastian had been talking about closing the gallery again. He’d been talking about doing that since the FBI arrested Arthur Ainsley for fraud last year, even though the Justice Department had cleared the business of any wrong-doing. Arthur had been working with one of the accounting staff to falsify the sales tax records. They’d dug deep, into everyone’s lives – including her own – and found that Ainsley had done the same thing at the last three galleries he’d worked at.  
  
After so many years of living with almost no privacy, her apartment was frighteningly empty and the thought of going home tonight made her feel worse than she already did. It was getting close to five and if she didn’t go back to the apartment, she didn’t know where she’d go.  
  
The door chime distracted her and she looked up, surprised and delighted. “Peter!” She ran to him, throwing herself into his arms, laughing and sobbing at the same time.  
  
“Hey, hey.” He held her tightly and stroked her hair. “It’s okay.”  
  
“No, it’s not – but you’re home and you’re safe.” El kept her arms wrapped around Peter, unwilling to let go of the one person she could trust to keep her sane right now.  
  
He let her hold onto him and finally, once she’d gotten control over her emotions, she let go. Peter looked exhausted, his suit rumpled, his face covered in days of scruff. But he was smiling, his expression tender and affectionate.  
  
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”  
  
She knew he meant that on so many levels. “I’m just glad you’re home.” She hugged him again and pulled him back towards the gallery’s private spaces. “Want some coffee?”  
  
“I’d kill for a cup.”  
  
She fussed with the espresso machine, pulling a perfectly made cup of Peter’s preferred Italian roast. He was standing against the wall, and El gestured for him to take a seat.  
  
He took a sip of the coffee and sighed with gratitude. “No, I need to stand. I’ve been sitting for the better part of five days. I’d always wanted to drive from coast to coast, but not like this.” Peter had been on assignment, interviewing a witness in Seattle, when the disaster happened.  
  
“Was it bad?”  
  
He shrugged. “Not really – just long days. I had company until Chicago – there was an agent I picked up in Spokane and we shared the driving duties for three of the days. But after that …” Peter’s voice trailed off.  
  
El understood the toll of spending so many hours alone with your thoughts and your grief.  
  
“You doing okay?”  
  
Peter’s question, so softly asked, almost set her to crying again.  
  
“Honestly, I don’t know. Emma …” Her breath came out in a shudder. Peter reached out, hugging her again. “Amanda’s left, too.”  
  
“I’m so sorry.” The words, his arms around her, gave her some small measure of comfort.  
  
“Thank you. Thank you for being my friend.” She knew that sounded so corny, but she needed to say the words.  
  
“Listen – I have to return the car, but if you’d like – I can stay at your place, tonight. Or you can come stay with me if you prefer?”  
  
“Yeah, I think I’d like to stay with you.” She felt like she never wanted to go back to that little apartment on Greene Street.  
  
“Then my place it is.”  
  
Peter waited while she said goodnight to Sebastian, who was scowling at the printer’s drafts of an exhibition catalogue. He drove her back to her place and waited again while she ran upstairs and packed a bag. She stuffed it with a random assortment of clothes and toiletries and rushed back out, unwilling to spend a moment more than necessary in this empty space.  
  
It was her turn to wait while Peter returned his car. At least he wasn’t dealing with a rental agency – he had driven a car from the Seattle FBI office back to New York. The guy in charge of the motor pool just said welcome home when Peter handed him the paperwork approving his use of the vehicle on a cross-country journey.  
  
The weather was pleasant and it wasn’t that far to walk to Peter’s apartment in Stuyvesant Town on the East Side. Of course, Peter insisted on carrying her bag, as well as his own.  
  
The streets were strangely quiet, everything eerily subdued. The ban on private vehicles was still in effect and this close to Ground Zero, Manhattan felt like a ghost town.  
  
One of the many things she adored about Peter was that he never felt the need to fill the silences. He was comfortable just not talking. But he also knew when those silences needed to be filled. This was one of those moments.  
  
“The drive really wasn’t bad. The scenery was interesting. We drove across the Continental Divide.”  
  
“And did you feel all the fluids in your body suddenly change direction?”  
  
Peter laughed. “You’re silly, you know that?”  
  
Elizabeth smiled and for the first time in a week, that hard knot of grief eased just a bit.  
  
The sun had dipped below the skyline as they walked across the Oval to Peter’s building. Peter had been lucky when he’d moved into New York City; his mother’s sister owned a two-bedroom co-op in Stuyvesant Town, and had let Peter move in. When she’d retired to Florida a year later, Peter purchased it. Over the years, he’d had a succession of roommates – all platonic – but at the moment, the second bedroom was empty.  
  
“I’ve never been so grateful to be home.” Peter flopped onto the couch with a groan. “Any idea what you’d like for dinner?”  
  
“Give me a few minutes, okay?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
She took her bag and made her way towards the back bedroom. The apartment was spacious, but the view – at least from this room – was not the best, looking right into the brick wall of the neighboring building. But she would have traded her six by nine corner of her Greenwich Village living room for this any day.  
  
And suddenly, it hit her. By Thanksgiving, she was going to be homeless. Emma was gone and the lease was in her name. Amanda was gone too. There was no way she could afford that apartment on her salary. Not if she wanted to eat.  
  
She dropped onto the bed, and buried her face in her hands. All the grief came back, fear and uncertainty compounding her anxiety. She sat there, paralyzed, as the room got dark.  
  
“El?”  
  
She looked up, Peter was standing in the doorway. He must have seen her tears but she scrubbed them away. “Sorry – just …”  
  
“No need to apologize. I’m going to take a shower – we’ll sort out dinner after.”  
  
She nodded. “Sounds good.” The last thing she wanted to do was eat.  
  
There was no point in sitting in a dark, empty bedroom. Besides, Peter would only come looking for her and worry. She went into the kitchen, and poked around the fridge. There was little in there that was edible and she took it upon herself to toss out the spoiled food. Not that there was much in there. Peter wasn’t much of a cook, long hours generally meant take in or prepared meals. But he apparently had tried to make an effort – there were the near liquefied remains of a salad in the vegetable bin, as well as a couple of blackened bananas on the fruit side (and who puts bananas in the fridge?) She didn’t toss those. They were perfect for cooking and maybe make she’d make him some muffins as a thank you present.  
  
The milk had gone bad, and so had the orange juice. El didn’t even bother opening the boxes of leftover Chinese food. They went right into the garbage.  
  
“Whatever you do, don’t toss the beer.” Peter came into the kitchen and reached around her for a bottle. “Want one?”  
  
“Yeah, actually I do.” El wasn’t normally a beer drinker, but tonight, a beer sounded like perfection.  
  
“Pizza?”  
  
“Sausage and mushroom?” That was their usual order.  
  
“Calling it in now.” Peter paused before dialing. “You don’t think that there will be any problems with getting deliveries?”  
  
“No. There aren’t – we had food delivered to the gallery this afternoon. I think the businesses are really hurting and are doing everything they can to keep customers happy.”  
  
Peter nodded and El listened with half an ear as he placed the order. She couldn’t keep her mind off her problems.  
  
“Should be about twenty minutes. Was there anything edible left in the fridge? I’m starving.”  
  
“Not much – just a bottle of olives, some cheese of the spray variety and the rest of your beer, but that’s it.”  
  
“Are you dissing my food choices?” Peter gave her a mock stare before opening the fridge and retrieving the can. “Now – I’ve got the perfect accompaniment to this.” He stretched and opened a cabinet, snagging a familiar yellow box. “Ah ha! Perfect.”  
  
“Spray cheese and Triscuits, food of champions?”  
  
“Well, if not that, then food for the hungry.” Peter deposited a dollop of orange “cheese” on a cracker and downed it in one bite. He chewed and swallowed. “Want one?”  
  
“Nah – not that hungry. And come to think of it, I don’t think I’d ever be _that_ hungry.”  
  
Peter sprayed another cracker, and commented “You don’t know what you’re missing,” before popping it into his mouth.  
  
They headed back into the living room to wait for the pizza, except that El couldn’t seem to relax and wandered around the room, fiddling with some books, straightening a knickknack or two.  
  
“You know, I’ve been thinking …”  
  
“You have? That’s always a dangerous thing.” They teased each other all like this all the time, and the banter helped her feel a little less tense.  
  
“No, seriously.” Peter patted the couch next to him. “Come sit down and listen to my idea.”  
  
She sat down next to him and slipped off her shoes. This was Peter and she didn’t need to keep the gloss on for him. “Okay, so what’s your idea.”  
  
“Now, I need you to listen to everything I have to say before you react.” Peter had a very serious expression on his face.  
  
“This doesn’t sound good.”  
  
“Oh, no – it’s not something bad.” He smiled but that did nothing to quell her anxiety.  
  
“Then tell me, already.”  
  
“How about you move in with me?” Before she could say anything, Peter held up a hand. “Your lease is up soon, right? And maybe you’d like to take the second bedroom – it would be a lot nicer than your corner. You’d have your own bathroom, too. And I was thinking about this even before …” He trailed off, unwilling to bring _that_ into the conversation.  
  
El took a deep breath, trying to frame her acceptance in a way that didn’t sound desperate and needy, but gave up. Because she was desperate and needy and even if the disaster hadn’t happened, she’d have been tempted to take Peter’s offer.  
  
“El?”  
  
She flung herself into his arms. “Yes, oh god, yes. How did you know?”  
  
“Know what?”  
  
“That I was so worried – it just hit me that there was no way I could keep that apartment, even if I wanted to stay there. I didn’t know where I was going to live.”  
  
“So – you want to move in with me?”  
  
“Absolutely. And I promise not to cramp your style.”  
  
Peter gave her a mocking grin. “Style? Me? Didn’t you once call me the straightest gay man you’d ever met?”  
  
She slapped his shoulder. “That wasn’t an insult, and you know what I mean.”  
  
He kissed her forehead. “I do, El. And I appreciate it.”  
  
She rested her head on his shoulder. They’d both been through bad patches romantically over the last few months. “Max was an idiot.” Peter’s last long term relationship had been an accountant, a man so deep in the closet that when they ran into his colleagues one evening, Max introduced Peter as his “cousin.” They’d ended things that night.  
  
Peter propped her up in turn. “As so was Jeremy. Anyone who would cheat on you _has_ to be an idiot.”  
  
“Yeah.” She smiled, though. “Jeremy had a tiny dick. And he couldn’t find my clit even with a map and a searchlight.”  
  
Peter let out a shout of laughter. “You are one of a kind, Elizabeth Mitchell.”

__________________

  
  
  
  
  
**New York City, December 2003**  
  
Peter looked up from the New York Times crossword puzzle as El made her way into the living room. He was worried about her. She’d been suffering from nearly constant headaches for months now. She’d lost a lot of weight too.  
  
But whenever he pressed her, Elizabeth had excuses. Six months ago, she’d left her job at the Diarmitt and went out on her own as an event planner. Since then, she kept telling him that her life had become one big ball of stress. Of course she had headaches. Between starting up a business and chasing after clients, tension and anxiety were her constant companions. It was close to Christmas, too. She’d landed a bunch of clients who wanted her to arrange their holidays parties. She didn’t have time to breathe, let alone eat, so of course she was losing weight. And besides, what woman didn’t need to drop a couple of pounds?  
  
Peter wasn’t buying any one of those excuses. El was sick and he couldn’t stop thinking of all the things that could be wrong with her. He also knew that pushing her would only make her more stubborn, more adamant that she was fine.  
  
He had to ask, even though he could see the answer in her drawn face and gray tone. “Feeling better?”  
  
El shrugged and winced, before reaching for the coffee. “Honestly, no. I feel like I’m hung over, but I haven’t had anything to drink.”  
  
“I don’t know if caffeine is the best thing to have with such a headache - won't the caffeine make you tense.”  
  
“Actually, it’s a standard and medically-approved remedy for migraines.”  
  
“Is that what you’ve got? Migraines?” And because he couldn’t help it, he had to ask, “You’ve been to the doctor?”  
  
“No – but I did have migraines when I was in high school and the doctor gave me a pill that was essentially a massive dose of caffeine.”  
  
“Did it help?”  
  
“A little. He said that the caffeine would constrict the blood vessels in my brain.”  
  
Peter sighed. “El – ”  
  
She must have known what he was going to say. “Peter, don’t.”  
  
But he did, he had to. “You need to go to a doctor. Even if it’s just migraines, there are new medications. I’ve done some research. There are calcium channel blockers and beta blockers, even some antidepressants work on migraines. Diet too – you might have a food allergy.”  
  
El shrugged and countered, “If it’s not migraines, it’s probably just a massive sinus headache. It’s been cold.”  
  
He didn’t buy that. “Not that cold. And a sinus headache doesn’t last for so many months, not like the headaches you’ve been having.”  
  
“Please – just stop, okay?” She collapsed into a chair and held her head. “I can’t go to a doctor, I can’t start that merry-go-round of tests and more tests and drugs and more tests. I can’t afford to go.”  
  
“El, your health is a hell of a lot more important than your business. You need to make some time to take care of yourself. You can’t afford _not_ to.”  
  
She looked at him and Peter was shocked at just how much worse she looked from even yesterday. “You don’t get it, do you?”  
  
“Get what?”  
  
She bit her lip and blinked; Peter thought she was about to cry. “I can’t _afford_ to go.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You work for the government; you don’t even have to think twice about your medical bills.”  
  
“El?” Peter had a terrible, terrible feeling. “You didn’t take the COBRA plan when you left the gallery?”  
  
“No, I didn’t.” El rubbed her forehead. “And don’t yell at me. It was over six hundred dollars a month. I couldn’t afford it.”  
  
“You could have asked me. I would have helped.”  
  
“Peter – you’re helping too much. You aren’t letting me pay rent while I get my business launched, and you are buying all of the groceries and paying for all the utilities. I wasn’t going to let you pay for my health insurance.”  
  
“Why not? You’re my best friend, the closest thing I have to family – ”  
  
She interrupted him “Your mother – ”  
  
“I love her very much but my mother refuses to accept that I’m gay. And that’s not the point. Friends take care of each other, and …” Peter just stopped. Yelling at El for a stupid decision that couldn’t be fixed was pointless. It was also cruel, since she was sick and in so much pain.  
  
He went over to her, rubbing the tight spot between her neck and shoulder. “You have any appointments today?” She’d been going flat out for months, rarely taking a day off – even spending Sundays at bridal events and other types of trade shows. He eased off on the massage.  
  
“No – and don’t stop, that feels too good.”  
  
“Then stay home, get some sleep.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“You just said that you don’t have appointments.”  
  
“But I have paperwork and I need to book some flowers and linens for the Williams-Thompson holiday party.”  
  
“El – ”  
  
“Peter, please. I’ll go back to bed for a few hours. I promise.”  
  
He looked at her and worried. “I’ll come back for lunch if I can.” She was about to protest, but he cut her off. “No arguing. I’ll be here around noon.”  
  
“Okay.” She gave him a weak smile. “But I hate it that you’re rescuing me, again.”  
  
“I’m not rescuing you; I’m taking care of you when you need it.” Peter pressed a kiss on her forehead. “Go back to bed. That’s an order.”  
  
She grumbled but got up and returned to her bedroom. Peter stood there for a moment, looked at the closed door and tried to figure out how to fix this.  
  
The problem dogged him all morning, distracting him during a meeting and an interview with a suspect.  
  
“Off your game there, Burke.” Andy Sullivan, a fellow agent, commented after the Marshals left with their suspect.  
  
Peter shrugged. “Got things on my mind. Sorry.”  
  
“Have to envy you, though.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Your problems are the small beans variety.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“No wife, no kids. You’re a bachelor in New York, and I bet your biggest worry is whether or not you’re going to get lucky this weekend.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that.” Peter never particularly liked Andy; he was a self-centered prick under the best of circumstances.  
  
“Well, at least you don’t have my problems.” Andy reached around him for the sugar container. “My ex is whining again. Seems that some paperwork didn’t get filed. You’d think that I live to make sure that she’s still got health insurance.”  
  
“What?” Andy was never shy about over-sharing his personal problems with him. Peter wasn’t sure how he got so lucky and wished there was a way to stop the man from telling him every damn detail of his life.  
  
“Yeah – bitch divorces me, slams me for alimony and child support, and then demands that I file the papers that will give her ‘spouse equity’.” He made air-quotes around those last words.  
  
“Spouse equity?”  
  
“Yeah – you know, so the bitch can still go to the doctor.” Andy grimaced, looking like a constipated goat. “She should only get sick and die – except then I’d have to figure out who’d take care of the brats. Which reminds me, she’ll kill me if I don’t spend a fucking fortune on Christmas presents for those little leeches.”  
  
Sullivan continued to whine about his ex and his kids, but Peter didn’t hear a word he said. The solution to Elizabeth’s problem was right in front of him. He just hoped she’d go for it.  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“Peter Burke, are you insane?” Elizabeth held her head between her hands. The pain was horrific and the madness of Peter’s question made it even worse.  
  
“El, listen to me. It’s the perfect solution. Think of it as an early Christmas present.”  
  
“No, it’s not.” She got up and left the living room, but her retreat wasn’t as much strategic as necessary. She was nauseous and was seconds from vomiting the little bit of soup she’d managed to down.  
  
Peter, the bastard, followed her and held her head as she heaved over the toilet bowl. She sank to the floor; the cold tiles felt good against her face.  
  
“Here, let’s get you cleaned up.” Peter gently maneuvered her to a sitting position and wiped her face with a cool, damp cloth.  
  
She moaned and leaned against him. “Thank you.” The world spun a bit as he picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. “You’re still insane.”  
  
“We need to do this, El. _You_ need to do this. You can’t go on like this.”  
  
She buried her face in her pillow. She didn’t want to talk about it. Her head hurt too much. “Let me sleep, okay? Please?” She hated the tears that were clogging her throat.  
  
“Okay.” She heard Peter sigh and leave the room. She knew, though, that he wouldn’t give up. He was Special Agent Peter Burke and he was relentless. He was also her best friend and cared about her.  
  
Some amount of time must have passed and she must have slept. When she opened her eyes, she felt a little better. Not a whole lot, but a little. El carefully sat up and waited for the pounding to start again. It didn’t take more than a few seconds. The nausea was still there and her head felt like the entire percussion session of a marching band, but at least she was in no immediate danger of hurling again. Her arms and hands were tingling and her feet felt weird – like she was wearing booties. This had been going on for a couple of weeks, and she hadn’t told Peter about it. She didn’t tell him about the problems she had keeping her balance, either. She had to hold onto the furniture and the walls sometimes.  
  
She wasn’t stupid. She knew that something was wrong with her, something seriously wrong. There were frightening gaps in her memory. She’d walk across the room and not remember why she was there, or even entering the room to begin with. She’d call a client, forgetting that they’d spoken only an hour ago.  
  
And right now, she knew that she was annoyed with Peter, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why.  
  
“Hey, you’re awake.” Peter had stuck his head into her room. “Been checking up on you every once and a while.”  
  
“How long?” She swallowed and licked her lips. Her mouth felt like a desert.  
  
“A few hours.” Peter must have read her mind. He disappeared and came back with a glass of water.  
  
She reached out, thinking she had a good grip on it, but it just slipped away, spilling everywhere. “Damn it.” And to her utter shame, she burst into deep, tearing sobs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  
  
Peter picked her up again, depositing her on the arm chair in the corner. “Shh, it’s okay. Nothing more than a little water. And besides, you’re sheets could use a change.” He pulled a small blanket off the foot of the bed; it was warm and dry and felt good as he wrapped it around her.  
  
El watched, silently cursing her helplessness, as Peter stripped off the wet sheets and put on clean ones, restoring everything to pristine condition.  
  
He turned to her, hands on his hips and a cheerful, but all-too-fake smile on his lips. “There, good as new. Do you want to get back into bed, or do you want to sit up for a little while?”  
  
“I think I want to sit up for a bit – maybe in the living room.”  
  
“Sure thing.” Peter actually came and tried to pick her up.  
  
“I can walk, please let me.”  
  
Peter did, but he seemed poised to catch her as she stumbled from her bedroom. He hovered behind her as she made her way into the living room and all but collapsed onto the couch. Peter didn’t say anything as he lifted her feet up and tucked a blanket around her legs.  
  
He left her alone just long enough to come back with more water – but this time in a bottle with a straw. El was too sick to be embarrassed.  
  
The water was cool and soothed the parched tissues, but as much as she wanted to finish it, she was afraid that she’d get sick again. Reluctantly, she handed to bottle back to Peter, who placed it on the coffee table, just within reach.  
  
“Do you want me to brush your hair?”  
  
She had to smile at that. Yes, he was treating her like a princess, but his request wasn’t anything that he hadn’t asked to do before. Big, strong, and very masculine Peter Burke seemed to have a bit of a fixation with her long hair. “Please.”  
  
He left and returned with her hairbrush and she sat with her back towards him as he gently worked the brush through her tangled mane. He was so careful not to pull or yank, but it couldn’t be helped and she moaned as the brush snagged on a knot. “Maybe this is why I’m having such headaches. I should just have it all cut off.”  
  
“That would be a crime against humanity.”  
  
“It would make my life a lot easier, you know.”  
  
Peter didn’t say anything, but just hmm’d – an abstract concurrence. He put the brush down and threaded his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp and she purred a little. The pain wasn’t gone, but she felt better nonetheless.  
  
He took it one step further, braiding her hair into a loose plait. “There – all done.”  
  
She smiled her thanks and leaned back against him, too tired to move. This felt right and good and she found a little bit of peace.  
  
“Have you thought any more about my proposal?”  
  
She blinked and tried to sit up, agitation immediately destroying her hard-won tranquility.  
  
“El?”  
  
Panic overwhelmed her, she was dizzy and it was hard to breath. She struggled again Peter, unable to find any purchase on the slick leather couch.  
  
“El, sweetheart – what’s the matter?”  
  
She closed her eyes and tried to relax, tried to recall the conversation they’d had just a few hours ago but she couldn’t. “I – I can’t … remember what you asked me. I remember being angry and annoyed but not why.”  
  
Elizabeth knew she’d never forget the look of horror and worry on Peter’s face at that moment. “I told you that we should get married.”  
  
She shook her head, the movement making the nausea return, but she swallowed and managed to keep her gorge down. “I’m sorry – I don’t …”  
  
“Elizabeth, look at me.” Peter tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her head. “We’re getting married tomorrow. You’ll be covered by my insurance the day afterwards and you’ll go to the doctor. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”  
  
“Peter – “ She wanted to desperately to say no, to tell him that he was being ridiculous. Why would he want to marry her?  
  
“Listen to me. We’ll get married, you’ll go to the doctor and get well, and then we’ll get divorced. You’ll be able to keep your health insurance until you can afford your own. It’s as simple as that.”  
  
“I – “ A thousand arguments against Peter’s solution fought against the throbbing in her head and all of them lost.  
  
“Elizabeth Mitchell – I love you. You’re my best friend and the one person in this world I trust completely and absolutely. I don’t know what I’d do without you and I’m afraid that if we don’t get you some help soon, I’m going to find out. Please marry me.”  
  
She took a deep breath, prepared to refuse this terrible, wonderful and gallant man. But the only word that came out of her mouth was “Yes.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
Once upon a time, Peter had been a boy scout and though he’d be drummed out of his troop now, he’d never forget the lessons he’d learned. The most important one, naturally, was “be prepared.”  
  
This morning, after breaking free of Andy Sullivan and his unpleasantness, Peter went down to the fifteenth floor of the Federal Building, where the human resources department was. The manager, wearing what had to be the ugliest Christmas sweater ever created and a green pointed cap like one of Santa's elves, was most helpful.  
  
“You’re getting married?”  
  
Peter had nodded. “I have a couple of questions about my health insurance.” He had picked his next words with great care. “My fiancée – well, she’s …” He made a gesture around his abdomen and thought about something embarrassing, so he’d blush.  
  
“In a delicate state?” The woman smiled at him, drawing the conclusions Peter was hoping she’d draw.  
  
“Yeah. And she doesn’t have insurance and we need to go to the doctor.” He had tried not to actually speak any lies.  
  
“And you want to know when she’ll be covered?”  
  
“Exactly.” He had forced a grin, trying to seem like a proud and nervous father-to-be.  
  
“Well, the good news is that she’ll be covered as a spouse immediately. There’s no waiting period for newlyweds.” The woman went over to a filing cabinet decorated with tinsel and ornaments and pulled out some forms. “Just fill these out and bring them back and I’ll contact the carrier immediately. We don’t want anything to go wrong with your new family. As soon as you can give me a copy of your marriage certificate, I’ll have temporary cards printed up.”  
  
Peter took the forms.  
  
“When’s the big day?”  
  
“Tomorrow.”  
  
He hadn’t been at all surprised when the woman had blinked. People usually didn’t get married on Wednesdays.  
  
“Not letting any grass grow, Agent Burke?”  
  
“No, I’m not. The situation’s kind of urgent, if you know what I mean.”  
  
She had laughed and again assured him that once she had a copy of the signed forms and the marriage certificate, his blossoming new bride would be covered under this health care.  
  
Peter had smiled, thanked the woman and just about ran out to take care of the next item on his list. He had to get to City Hall for a marriage license.  
  
Now, sitting with El in his living room, his heart almost breaking from fear and relief, Peter told her that he’d taken care of everything.  
  
“I’ve even put in for the vacation day tomorrow.”  
  
El actually laughed. “You’re so practical. I never thought I’d be fit into your schedule like opening day at Yankee Stadium “  
  
Peter didn’t share her humor. “El, we need to do this. I’ve got all the paperwork done and we just have to show up at City Hall at 10:30 – the time slot with the city clerk has been booked. I’ve already gotten Judge Clark to waive the mandatory twenty-four hour waiting period; she faxed the order to the Clerk’s office while I was waiting. Everything is set. From there, I’ll take the forms and our marriage certificate back to the office and get your insurance card so we can get you to a doctor.”  
  
“I feel like you’re a steam roller, Peter, and you’re going to flatten me regardless of my objections.”  
  
“El – ” He was about to explain again how important it was for them to do this.  
  
“No, Peter – let me finish. I’m not upset with you – I think you are the most wonderful man in the universe and I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you as a friend. But what about you?”  
  
“What do you mean, what about me?”  
  
“What are you getting from this? It’s not like we’re – ” El blushed. “We’re going to have sex.”  
  
“No, we’re not, and when you’re feeling better, we’ll talk about how we’ll get on with that and other things, like dating.” Peter grinned now. “I know this is going to be complicated, but it’s necessary.”  
  
“You haven’t answered my question. How does this benefit you?”  
  
“Does it have to?”  
  
“I’d feel a lot happier knowing that you got something out of this, too. That I’m not the only one benefitting.”  
  
Peter thought for a moment. He could understand her point, about not wanting to constantly be on the receiving end of someone else’s good deed. “My mother. You know what she’s like.”  
  
“Yeah.” Elizabeth’s lips twitched.  
  
“Ever since you moved in here, she’s fantasized that you’re going to cure me of my gayness and we’ll get married and live happily ever after.”  
  
“And when you tell her that we’re married, she’ll think that all her dreams came true.”  
  
Peter nodded. “Exactly”  
  
El was quick to burst his bubble. “You know it won’t end with you putting a ring on my finger. “First, she’ll be unhappy that you didn’t give her a big, splashy wedding. Then she’ll want to know when the babies are going to come. She’ll be relentless. Marrying me is only going to make things worse with your mother.”  
  
Peter wasn’t going to let that dissuade him. “El – I already told you. You’re the most important person in my world and I can’t bear the thought of you in pain. If you really want to know what I’ll get out of this – it’s that. It’s peace of mind, the knowledge that Elizabeth Mitchell, soon to be Elizabeth Burke, is happy and healthy and is going to stay that way for a very long time.”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“I’m scared.” She was sick and tired of being brave, of putting on a good face. Of smiling and telling everyone that she’d be all right. Peter, of course, knew better. Maybe that’s why she could be so honest.  
  
“I know. And I am, too.”  
  
Peter was sitting on the hospital bed next to her and she squeezed his hand. Her _husband’s_ hand. Or tried to. Her motor control had declined rapidly over just this the past week.  
  
He squeezed back before picking up her hand and holding it to his cheek. “I’m not going to say ‘it’ll be all right’ because I don’t know that it will. But whatever happens, I’m here with you.”  
  
“Even if I’m a drooling vegetable?”  
  
“I’ll empty your dribble cup.”  
  
“And change my bedpan?”  
  
“That too.”  
  
“I’m scared, Peter. I don’t want to die, I don’t want to be a vegetable.”  
  
He kissed the palm of her hand. She could barely feel it. “I know.”  
  
An aide pulled back the curtain. “It’s time.”  
  
“Peter…” She couldn’t stop the panic.  
  
“Shhh.” He helped her sit up. “It’s just a haircut.”  
  
Peter had taken her to her salon the day after her appointment with the surgeon and El had her hair cut very short. She saved the long locks – they wouldn’t be enough to make a wig, but she couldn’t bear to throw it away or even donate it. Not just yet. “It’s not a haircut – they’re going to shave my head.”  
  
“And you’ll look very charming – just like G.I. Jane.”  
  
She tried to smile but failed miserably. “I’m being such a baby, I know.”  
  
Peter took the cape and towel from the aide and draped it around her shoulders. “Yes, you are, but it’s okay.” He sat down in the chair next to the bed.  
  
El didn’t take her eyes off of Peter’s face as the aide ran the clippers through the short curls that was all that remained of her hair. That wonderful, wry grin and soft look never left his face.  
  
“All done.” The buzzing stopped as the aide turned off the clippers. El was chilled – her ears were cold – and she shivered. “Let me get this off you and we’ll get you some warm blankets and a hat.” The aide took off the cape, careful to avoid spilling the hair clippings all over her.  
  
“I look terrible, don’t I?”  
  
“Hmmm, like I said – G.I. Jane. The wonderful thing about hair, though – “ Peter moved back to the bed, holding her close.  
  
“Yeah, I know, it grows.”  
  
Peter was trying to keep her amused and distracted from what was about to happen, but she had a hard time concentrating. Her belly felt fully of giant, frantic butterflies and the pain in her head was approaching catastrophic levels. Knowing what was causing it did not make it any better.  
  
“And then I said to Hughes, ‘Just fuck off and go blow yourself. If I want to pick my nose during a staff meeting I will.’ “  
  
Elizabeth blinked. “Wait, what did you just say?” Was she having auditory hallucinations now?  
  
But Peter had a great big grin on his face. “You weren’t paying attention, and I wanted to see how long I could go on before you realized what I was saying.”  
  
“Bastard.”  
  
“But you love me anyway, right?”  
  
“With all my heart and the half of my brain that’s still functioning.” El tried to make a joke but her voice wobbled at that last bit.  
  
“Half of your brain is twice as good than anyone else’s whole brain,” Peter avowed.  
  
Whatever El was going to say got cut off when the curtain rattled. “May I come in?”  
  
It was her surgeon, Dr. Cartwright, who looked far too glamorous to be one of the top-ranked neurosurgeons in the country. The woman gave both her and Peter a tight smile. “I see that you’re ready to go.”  
  
El touched her head, now covered by a soft knit cap. Her hand was fitting with an IV line. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to have my head cut opened.”  
  
“Maybe I should have said ‘prepped’ – because you’re right, this isn’t something anyone is ever really ready for.” The surgeon graciously corrected herself.  
  
They’d been through the details during her initial consultation, but Dr. Cartwright wanted to go over them again. “As you know, you have a supertentorial glioma-type tumor – that is, the mass is located above the tentorium – the membrane that separates the cerebrum from the cerebellum.”  
  
“Do you think I’ll make a complete recovery.”  
  
Cartwright pursed her lips. “I can’t tell you that. These types of tumors can be difficult and they can reoccur. I know that’s not what you want to hear and that’s won’t make you feel better. But you’re a smart woman and I don’t want to give you assurances that I can’t guarantee.”  
  
El nodded and felt Peter’s hand go sweaty and shaky. He asked, “And El’s chances for surviving the surgery?”  
  
“There are always risks, but – ” The doctor sighed and sat down on the bed. “But the truth is that you have a seventy-five percent chance of survival. Based on the scans, it looks well-differentiated and we can classify as low-grade. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not dangerous. If you don’t have the surgery, you will be permanently incapacitated within three months and will be dead within six.”  
  
“I know – I wasn’t going to back out. Peter just likes to know the odds.”  
  
Cartwright nodded. “I can understand that. Have you been married long?”  
  
Peter answered with a light, bitter laugh. “About ten days.”  
  
“Ah – I’m so sorry. This isn’t the way anyone wants to start out their married life.”  
  
“No, it isn’t.” El looked over at her husband. Despite the odd nature of their marital relationship, she still enjoyed thinking of this man as her husband. “But we’re together.”  
  
Peter added. “Yes, and that’s what counts. We’re in this together.”  
  
“Do you have any questions?”  
  
Peter did, of course. “How long – ”  
  
He paused and licked his lips, and before he could finish, the surgeon jumped in. “Will the surgery take? Anywhere from eight to sixteen hours.”  
  
He nodded. “That’s not what I was asking. How long – how long until you know whether the tumor is benign or malignant.” The last word was whispered, as if even saying it would make it true.  
  
Cartwright apologized and answered. “We can get an initial result on the cell structure in a few hours. But the preliminary results will need to be qualified and typed.”  
  
“Any chance for a false negative?”  
  
“There is that possibility, but false negatives are rare, Mr. Burke.”  
  
Peter shook his head. “Not that rare – my father had a CT guided biopsy of his lung and the test came back negative. Eighteen months later, he died from the cancer that had metastisized in his bones.”  
  
“Like I said, rare, but not impossible. If the cell tissue tested is necrotic, it could come back benign initially, but with Elizabeth, that won’t be an issue. We’d be doing test on the entire tumor mass. “  
  
“Okay, enough.” Elizabeth took a deep breath and tried not to burst into tears. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”  
  
The doctor gave her a look filled with a surprising amount of compassion. “Do you want something for the anxiety?”  
  
She looked over at Peter and he nodded. “Yeah, I do. I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.”  
  
“That’s understandable. I’ll have a nurse come in with Valium. It’ll take the edge off. “ Cartwright stood up and checked her watch. “The transport team will be here in about a half-hour.”  
  
Elizabeth tried to smile, tried to do anything other than fall apart.  
  
The doctor left and as promised, the nurse came in with Valium, which she added into her IV line. The anxiety didn’t go away completely, but for the first time in days, she felt like she could breath.  
  
Peter kept his arm around her, but they didn’t talk. Other patients in the pre-op waiting room came and went, until finally it was her turn.  
  
The transport team – two young men in surgical scrubs and Santa caps helped her onto the gurney.  
  
Peter asked, “Can I come with her?”  
  
“No, sorry, man. No one but staff and patients allowed down on the surgical floors.”  
  
El had to smile when Peter pulled out his badge. “FBI agent.”  
  
The transport aides looked at him. “Is she your prisoner?”  
  
Peter sighed and grinned a little. “No, my wife.”  
  
The two men laughed. “Then no, you can’t. But you can walk with us to the elevator, okay?”  
  
“I’ll take what I can get.”  
  
They wheeled her out of the room and Peter kept hold of her hand until they reached the elevator. The transport guys stepped away and gave them a little privacy.  
  
“Honey -” Peter leaned over her.  
  
“Sweetheart – “ She answered.  
  
They both laughed. It was a sort of jokey shorthand that they when they’d go out and pretend to be a couple before trying to pick up guys.  
  
Peter cupped her cheeks. “Seriously – you’re going to be fine.”  
  
“Special Bad-Ass Agent Peter Burke won’t allow it to be otherwise, right?”  
  
“Right.” He kissed her, for the first, and probably the last time, on the lips.  
  
It was nice, but it didn’t spark anything more than a warm feeling of safety and comfort. “Love you.”  
  
“Love you, too.”  
  
The transporters came back as the elevator door opened. “Sorry, but this lovely lady has an appointment she can’t be late for.”  
  
Peter stepped back and El was grateful that when they pushed her gurney into the elevator, it was head first, so she could see Peter until the doors closed.  
  
There actually was elevator music playing in the elevator – some horrible and yet strangely soothing version of _Jingle Bell Rock_. But the soothing didn’t last. The dread came back and suddenly all she wanted to do was run away, not caring that she was wearing nothing more than a hospital gown and she was bald.  
  
The elevator came to a stop and the doors whooshed open to a bright corridor. They pushed the gurney out and El lost count of how many doors opened for them.  
  
“We’re almost there.” The gurney stopped just outside of another set of door, and one of the aides spoke into an intercom. “We’ve got Patient Burke, Elizabeth. Neuro. Please confirm.”  
  
 _Confirmed_  
  
The door buzzed and opened, and they pushed her into the operating room and transferred her from the gurney onto a hard table  
  
El shivered – the room was cold. Cold and bright and filled with scary equipment. A man in green scrubs and a surgeon’s cap was working with some of that equipment. “Elizabeth Burke.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s me.”  
  
He picked up her hand and El thought he was about to shake it, but no – he was checking her identification. “Yes, you’re you.”  
  
The door buzzed again and what looked to be an awful lot of medical people came in. The only person she recognized was the surgeon. Dr. Cartwright had changed out of her dress and heels, but still managed to convey a sense of glamor in scrubs, a cap and rubber clogs.  
  
“Feeling okay, Elizabeth?”  
  
She shrugged and shivered. “No, but that’s not going to change anything.”  
  
“True.” She gestured and a man came forward. “This is Doctor Alvarez – he’s the anesthesiologist.”  
  
He asked her if she had any allergies.  
  
“Isn’t it a little late to be asking that?” Actually, El lost count of how many times she’d been asked that question.  
  
The anesthesiologist nodded in sympathy, but explained. “We like to ask the patient whenever we can, rather than rely on the charts.”  
  
That made sense. El replied to the question. “The answer is no. No food or medical allergies. At least none that I know of.”  
  
“Okay. Ever have a bad reaction to anesthesia?”  
  
She shook her head. “This is the first time I’ve had surgery. Ever.”  
  
“Not even your appendix or your tonsils?”  
  
“Nope, not even my wisdom teeth.”  
  
The anesthesiologist finished his checklist. “All right, then we’re good to go.” He picked up her hand, the one with the IV line. “This is to put you asleep. I want you to count backwards from one hundred, okay?”  
  
El watched as he pushed the drug into the IV and she started counting back, “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-sev…”  
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
_“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Ready or not, here I come!” She lifted her head from her arms and looked around. Where could Neal be hiding? Was that him making the rhododendron bushes shake?  
  
Ellie crept across the lawn, trying to be as sneaky as possible. Neal was the neighborhood champion at Hide and Go Seek, always finding the best places to keep hidden in, and always finding her before time ran out.  
  
She checked for sneakers – Neal wore bright red ones – under the bush, but the only thing she found was the neighbor’s cat. Where could he be?  
  
They had rules about the game. You couldn’t leave the block and you couldn’t hide inside. And you had to stay out of Mr. Johnson’s backyard. Because he was creepy and he yelled at you. But every place else was fair game.  
  
Ellie checked her backyard and the neighbors on both sides. How far could Neal go in less than two minutes? She figured out that if she slowly counted to one hundred, it was a little more than a minute and a half. Neal was good, but he wasn’t a Jedi knight. He had to be close …  
  
She stopped and tried to think of where Neal could be. The air was still – no breeze – but the shadows from the big tree were moving. Ellie smiled and looked up. Neal was sitting on a branch. “Gotcha!”  
  
He laughed and jumped down. “I guess I’m going to need a new favorite hiding spot.”  
  
“You’ve been hiding there all the time?”  
  
“Yup! Can’t believe you finally caught me.”  
  
Ellie slung an arm around his shoulders – Neal was about four inches shorter than she was. “Well, it’s about time I did.”  
  
“Want to play another round? You hide this time?”  
  
She was about to agree when her mother called for them. “Elizabeth, Neal – time for dinner. Come get washed up.”  
  
“I guess not.” They walked back to the house. It was August, and that meant long days doing nothing but having fun. Neal spent most of his time with her – at least their free time. They rode the same bus to and from day camp, he came home with her, they had dinner together every night, and just before or after sunset, her dad would drive Neal home. And sometimes, he even stayed over. His mother, her Aunt Vivian, was … well, in Ellie’s mind, not much of a mother.  
  
She didn’t care, though – that meant that they could spend all day together, especially days like today. Saturdays meant no day camp, meant doing a few chores in the morning and then having the rest of the day to play games and wander the neighborhood on their bicycles.  
  
The other girls in the neighborhood, her classmates, thought she was crazy for hanging out with a little boy. She was almost eleven and Neal was nine. But Neal was fun and smart and he like to do things other than playing with Barbies or pretending to be one of glamorous women on Dynasty, like her school friends did. They were fun, but Ellie liked be with Neal more than she liked playing with the other girls.  
  
Other kids liked Neal, too. Most weekend days, there was a whole gang of boys and girls playing with them, but for some reason, not today. It didn’t matter, though. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them, it was the most fun of all.  
  
Her dad was grilling hamburgers and hotdogs and her mom handed her a stack of paper plates and cups. “We’re going to eat outside tonight – unless the mosquitos eat us, first.”  
  
Ellie giggled and took them. Neal was in charge of the plastic silverware and they raced each other into the back yard. Her dad was at the grill, wearing a silly apron that said “Please Kiss the Cook” that she and her mom had gotten him for Father’s Day. “Hey, munchkins, want a taste?”  
  
They set the stuff down on the picnic table and ran over to the grill. As usual, a hamburger had broken into three big pieces – the biggest one for her dad, and the other two for her and Neal. Her mom, of course, knew just what was going on, but she still called out from the kitchen, “Don’t spoil their appetites, Allen.”  
  
Her dad cautioned them, “Careful – it’s hot.” But of course they didn’t listen and they burnt their fingers on the meat, but it tasted delicious.  
  
Their treat consumed, they finished setting the table and her mother called her back into the kitchen to take down the pitcher of iced tea. Neal was drafted again, as well, and he brought out the basket with the ketchup and mustard. Everything was ferried outside just in time for her dad to take the last hamburger off the grill and hand the platter to her mother.  
  
“Ask them, Ellie.” Neal kicked her ankle and whispered urgently.  
  
His whisper wasn’t all that whispery, because her mother said, “Ask us what?”  
  
El swallowed the last bit of her hotdog. “It’s a meteor shower tonight.”  
  
“The Perseids,” Neal piped up. “My astronomy magazine says that the meteor shower tonight is going to be the most active one in the Northern Hemisphere in one hundred years – maybe in recorded history!”  
  
Her dad looked surprised and a little pleased. He’d given Neal a subscription to that magazine for his birthday last March. Maybe he thought that Neal would never read it?  
  
“We want to stay awake and watch it tonight. Can we?” Elizabeth put on her most pleading face.  
  
“Well, I don’t know – ” Her mother seem skeptical, but her father had a twinkle in his eye.  
  
“Please, please, please!” They both clasped their hands together like they were angels praying, begging with wide eyes.  
  
“You’ll clean up your room every morning?”  
  
Ellie nodded and so did Neal.  
  
“And you’ll do all of your chores without needing to be told twice?”  
  
“Yes, yes I will.”  
  
Neal of course, didn’t have chores to do, but he wasn’t getting off easily. “And you, young man – ”  
  
Neal sat up straight.  
  
“When your mother tells you it’s time to go home, you will do that without question or any whining.”  
  
Neal swallowed and licked his lips. “Okay.”  
  
Ellie knew this was a big deal. Aunt Vivian sometimes wanted to keep Neal close and didn’t want him to leave the house. Not all of the time, but sometimes, when she got a little sad and cried more than usual.  
  
“Well, then okay – you two can stay up and watch for the falling stars.”  
  
“Yeah!” They cheered, but Ellie wondered if there was going to be another catch. But there wasn’t. It got even better.  
  
“And you can watch from in the hammock.”  
  
That was the biggest treat of all. Last spring, her parents had bought a hammock. It wasn’t one that you had to tie between two trees – it had its own stand and she always hated having to give it up when her dad wanted to relax. Sometimes Ellie like to lay in it and dream, but the very best times were when Neal was with her – they’d watch the clouds and make up stories about dragons and knights and unicorns.  
  
The rest of the evening passed quickly. They cleaned up from dinner, which was fun because it meant throwing almost everything into the trash. They played Frisbee with her dad until they had to stop from all the running. Her dad had the worst aim and they were always chasing the disk into the bushed. Afterwards, her mom made them come inside and wash up. Of course they were bug bitten and needed some of that pink stuff to stop the itching.  
  
It was finally dark, the sun had set and there was no moon outside. Her dad said it was a perfect night to see the stars. They pulled the hammock into the center of the lawn, so there was a clear view of the sky. Her mom and dad were inside; she could hear the sounds of the television through the open windows. After the warm day, the night was surprisingly cool and she was grateful for both the blanket and for Neal snuggling next to her.  
  
“Hey, Ellie?”  
  
“What, Neal?” She was tired and fighting against falling asleep. She really wanted to see the falling stars.  
  
“We’re cousins, but you’re my best friend, right?”  
  
“Yeah, of course I am. And you’re my best friend, too – right?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
Neal turned over and sat up. “Pinky swear and hope to die?”  
  
Ellie sat up, too. She crossed her heart and held out her pinky. “Pinky swear and hope to die that Neal Caffrey will always be my best friend. Forever and forever and forever.”  
  
Neal took her pinky and made the oath too. “Pinky swear and hope to die that Ellie Mitchell will aways be my very best friend, forever and ever and ever.”  
  
She didn’t know why she felt like crying, but she sniffled a bit and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Neal grinned at her, his smile glowing in the lights from the house. They lay back down and watched the sky. One star fell, and the another and another and she caught her breath.  
  
“Did you see that, Ellie? Did you see the falling stars?”_   
  


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
“El?”  
  
“Elizabeth? Can you open your eyes?”  
  
“Hon, El? Open your eyes; it’s time to wake up.”  
  
She struggled against the need to fall back to sleep, she wanted to see the meteors, she wanted to stay awake and watch the stars fall from the sky.  
  
“Mrs. Burke?” That voice was stern, she didn’t recognize it.  
  
It took an effort and when she did, she wanted to go back to sleep more than ever. The lights were too bright and she didn’t know where she was. There were hands rubbing her arms and someone was squeezing her feet.  
  
She opened her eyes again, hoping that this time; she’d see the night sky. But instead, there were bright fluorescent lights and ceiling tiles and the faces of strangers. She started to panic. “Just relax, Elizabeth, everything’s all right.”  
  
 _No, it wasn’t all right._  
  
There was another voice, angry and worried, but she though she recognize it. The voice asked, “Why is she crying?”  
  
“It’s not uncommon for patients coming out of general anesthesia. Sometime it happens – she’s not in pain. It’s nothing to do with emotions.”  
  
El shivered and tried to wipe her tears away, but someone took care of that for her. Good, because she couldn’t move her arms. Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips, and another someone rubbed something cold and wet against them. When she opened her mouth, there was more cold wetness.  
  
She tried to talk, to form the words she needed, but it was hard. One word did come to her. “Neal.”  
  
A hand, warm and comforting, its strength familiar, cupped her cheek. “Kneel?” A face – also familiar and comforting – came into focus.  
  
She couldn’t remember why she said “kneel” but that didn’t matter now. She breathed another word, the most important one of all, “Peter.”  
  


FIN

 

**Author's Note:**

> For non-Americans, COBRA stands for the [Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act of 1985](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Consolidated_Omnibus_Budget_Reconciliation_Act_of_1985), which gave American workers the right to purchase the health insurance previously provided by their employer upon leaving employment.
> 
> Without health insurance, an individual who would not qualify for Medicaid or Medicare, is fully liable for all medical costs. A visit to the emergency room and subsequent tests and hospitalizations could easily cost $50,000, and surgery could be ten times that. And yes, the American health care industry is terrible.
> 
> With regards to Elizabeth’s brain tumor, I’m not a doctor and I don’t play one on TV, but I do have access to Wikipedia. Hopefully, no one who reads this will have any firsthand knowledge of supertentorial glioma-type tumors.


End file.
